


June, 2002

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [10]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Time Travel, lots and lots of blood, sill not sure where I went wrong, strong langugage, this was supposed to be fluff, time traveler's wife au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras tore into the kitchen.</p><p>“Yeah,” he mumbled from the floor, feeling very lightheaded and disorientated. Something wasn’t right but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	June, 2002

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for her help with this story :) and I'm sorry for the wait between chapters!

_June, 2002 (Enjolras is 26, Grantaire is 30)_   


Grantaire skidded across the kitchen floor, his legs colliding with the cabinets and buckling. The force of the impact sent frying pans falling from their neatly arrayed hooks on the wall, skitting across the counter with a colossal percussion of clashes and bangs.  


“Grantaire?” Enjolras tore into the kitchen.  


“Yeah,” he mumbled from the floor, feeling very lightheaded and disorientated. Something wasn’t right but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what. The kitchen tiles were cool on his back, but solid, not lending themselves to being sat on for any length of time. Before any deep-set ache could set into his coccyx, Grantaire tried to push himself to his feet. Try being the operative word. He raised his arm to grip the counter top and pull himself upright, suddenly confronted with a deep gash twisting round his arm just below his elbow. “Fuck,” he mumbled reduced to just sitting and staring at it.  


Blood was flowing at an alarming rate, already smeared down the length of his arm and beginning to pool on the tiles. Strangely it didn’t seem to hurt.  


“Grantaire! Jesus fucking Christ.” Enjolras was suddenly there, Grantaire’s hand in his own, holding it high above Grantaire’s head whilst his free hand scrabbled on the counter for a cloth. He caught a tea towel with the tips of his fingers, reaching desperately to pull it towards him without letting go of Grantaire. Tossing it in the air to flip it in half, he caught the middle and proceeded to wrap it around Grantaire’s upper forearm; applying pressure and drawing an agonised hiss from Grantaire in return. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, a righteous concern blazing from his eyes in a way that only Enjolras could muster.  


“I don’t remember.” Grantaire sounded dazed. “You’d think I’d remember.” Colour was draining from his face, his words sounded almost slurred. Enjolras hated to think how much blood he might have already lost before Travelling back.  


“Hospital.” He said. “Now.”  


For once, Grantaire didn’t protest.  


_(“They’re just going to ask a load of questions which I won’t be able to answer,”  
_

“Well you might just die if we don’t.”  


“I think that’s a little melodramatic, even for you,”)  


Enjolras’ heart was pounding in his chest as waves of panic and terror washed over him in turn.  


“C’mon ‘Aire, on your feet.” He ground his teeth to try and keep the waver of fear from his voice.  


Grantaire tried to push himself up, planting his non-injured hand on the floor, his feet vainly scrabbling for purchase on the tiles, but with his arm held high above his head it proved damn near impossible. The problem was Enjolras couldn’t place his arms under Grantaire’s shoulders to hoist him to his feet without letting go of the makeshift bandage, and thus releasing the pressure on the wound. Blood was already seeping through the cloth and Grantaire was becoming dangerously close to passing out. He couldn’t risk letting go.  


Frantically, Enjolras opened the kitchen drawers not sure what he was looking for, just hoping he might find something – ah! Duct tape. He tore the end of the roll off with his teeth and began to wrap the silver tape around the tea towel to hold it firmly in place over the wound. Round and round until he was sure it was secure. It probably wasn’t the most appealing makeshift dressing and Combeferre would probably have a thing or two to say about it, but it would have to do. Tearing the roll free, he threw it across the kitchen and repositioned his arms to better help Grantaire to his feet. Even from this position, it wasn’t easy. Grantaire wasn’t light. He might have looked like a slightly crooked, slightly gnarled rake, but his was made up of lean, compact muscle. Not to mention, the tiles were dangerously slippy with Grantaire’s blood. Enjolras almost blanched at the realisation, but managed to calm himself and struggled to manoeuvre a very unsteady Grantaire towards the more stable carpet of the hall. He tried to ignore the bloody footprints they tracked behind them, announcing to Grantaire that he’d never liked the carpet all that much anyway, and that it was about time they redecorated. They’d been living here for four months, it was about time they made it more their own.  


Grantaire managed a faint murmur of laughter at that. His chest hitched slightly which made Enjolras curl into him even more.  


“Cream carpets are clearly too impractical,” he continued, finding that speaking aloud was helping to distract from the situation. “Maybe we should get red, or burgundy. Dita always advocated blackcurrant colours carpets; I think she was on to something.”  


He kept up a running commentary of inane babble as he sat Grantaire gently at the foot of the stairs to race up and fetch some clothes. He would have preferred not to waste another minute in rushing Grantaire to hospital and to stitches and blood transfusions, but his common sense won out. There were going to be enough questions as it was, turning up naked would only raise more.  


Enjolras found a pair of sweats and a hoodie from the dresser and raced downstairs, almost stumbling but managing to catch himself with a hastily thrown out arm. Taking a couple of deep breaths he forced himself to calm down and phoned Combeferre.  


He switched the phone to speaker and placed it on the floor, as he struggled to wrestle the hoodie over an increasingly unconscious Grantaire’s head.  


“Enjolras?”  


“Combeferre!”  


He gingerly threaded the injured arm through, stretching the fabric as far as it would go and trying not to drag it across the wound unnecessarily. Grantaire couldn’t hold back the gasp of pain as the sleeve brushed across it.  


“Everything alright?”  


“No. It’s Grantaire. He’s hurt, we’re on our way to the hospital – can you?”  


“On my way. I’ll meet you there. Everything’ll be fine, Enjolras. Alright?” Combeferre replied quickly and soothingly, obviously sensing the panic in Enjolras’ voice. “It’s going to be okay. Keep me on speaker if you like.”  


He heard a front door slam in the background of the phone call and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  


“Thank you.”  


He pulled the hoodie down Grantaire’s torso, taking a moment to smooth it out. His hand lingered on Grantaire’s chest, feeling his heart hammering wildly. Enjolras frowned, resisting the urge to flick his eyes up to Grantaire, so as not to betray his concern to Grantaire. Was his heart supposed to be beating that fast? Surely it should be slowly down, not pumping _more_ blood, _more_ quickly? Wouldn’t that make things worse?  


“What happened?”  


“I don’t know. It’s his arm – the blood, ‘Ferre. He’s lost so much,”  


Trying to ignore the worry gnawing away at this chest, Enjolras threaded each of Grantaire’s ankles into the trousers before sliding them up to Grantaire’s thighs.  


“Come on, Grantaire, can you stand for me? Please?”  


“The human body is rather amazing, Enjolras.” Combeferre was telling him calmly. “We can lose up to roughly 4 pints of blood – which believe me looks like an awful lot when it’s not where it’s supposed to be.”  


Grantaire couldn’t stand, but he managed to roll his hips to help Enjolras slide the trousers over his ass. His eyes were hazy but Enjolras thought he caught a trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as Enjolras smoothed the sweatpants into place. He wanted to kiss him, so he did – quickly and chastely, there was hardly time for anything more.  


“Tell me what you did to wound?”  


“Wrapped it in a tea towel and secured it with tape,” he grunted, looping Grantaire’s non injured hand round his shoulder and dragging them both onto their feet. He stooped to pick up the phone and dropped it into his pocket, hoping Combeferre would still be able to hear him. The motion almost over balanced them, but somehow Grantaire remained on his feet, although his head was lolling against Enjolras’ shoulder and his jaw was slackened. Enjolras was fairly sure he’d finally passed out.  


“Good thinking,” came Combeferre’s muffled praised.  


Enjolras nodded bleakly, unable to think past anything other than Grantaire, and his shallow breathing, pale face and ever dampening arm.  


=  


Combeferre was waiting by this hospital doors with a wheel chair when Enjolras pulled the car to a stop. Once Grantaire was seated in the chair, Combeferre grabbed the keys from Enjolras and told him to get inside whilst he dealt with trying to park the car. Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever loved his friend more.  


Whether Combeferre had already primed the staff to be on the lookout for them, or if Grantaire really did look as terrible as Enjolras thought, he would never know. What he did know was that a team of nurses swarmed on them as he pushed Grantaire through the door, and he’d been whisked down the corridor into an operating theatre before Enjolras could practically blink.  


=  


Three and a half pints of transfused blood and fifteen stitches later, Grantaire was sucking on a straw of diluted squash and grinning at Enjolras.  


“Sorry about the carpet,” he smiled. His motions were still slightly foggy, and his eyes stayed noticeably closed with each blink.  


“I don’t care about the fucking carpet.”  


Grantaire snorted. “You loved that carpet, you kept mentioning it. I think it became a key selling point.”  


If he hadn’t just almost died, Enjolras might have shoved him.  


“’but Grantaire’,” he said, mimicking Enjolras’ voice, “’remember that one with the lovely carpets and the studio in the garden’,”  


“I don’t sound like that.”  


Grantaire didn’t answer, instead lifting his cup and searching for his straw with his tongue.  


“You’re insufferable.”  


Grantaire slurped. Enjolras rolled his eyes.  


“Can you remember what happened yet?”  


Grantaire continued slurping for a beat before nodding.  


“And?” Enjolras edged closer, which Grantaire hadn’t thought was physically impossible.  


Grantaire placed the cup carefully on the table which had been swung across the hospital bed in front of them. Despite his instance that he was now fine to go home, he was being forced the stay the night for observation. He flicked the straw away from him and watched it spin round the cup a few times before dragging his hand through his hair and finally bringing his eyes up to Enjolras.  


“How long was I gone?”  


“A day or so,” Enjolras replied quietly, finding Grantaire’s free hand and threading their fingers together.  


Grantaire nodded. “I’d already been arrested for indecent exposure, and spent the night in a cell,”  


Enjolras squeezed his hand gently. He talked so nonchalantly about it, but Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever get used to the idea.  


“They gave me clothes but nothing to eat so I was starving. The guy looked like a douche; thousand dollar suit, wallet practically hanging out of the back of his pants, but,” he trailed off and shook his head. “I clearly need to brush up on my pick pocketing skills. Although… apparently I’m not that bad.” He unlaced his fingers and held up Enjolras’ watch.  


“Stop trying to avoid the subject,” Enjolras snatched his watch and fastened it back onto his wrist, trying not to look impressed. “It looked like someone tried to cut your arm off.”  


Shrugging, he knocked his head back into the pillows and closed his eyes. “They fucking did. I reached to grab his wallet, when this – I don’t even know, body guard? Do people really have body guards? Wrenched my wrist and – the _force_ he used. I thought he hit bone. Then before he got a chance at another swipe I crashed into our kitchen.”  


Enjolras nestled his head into Grantaire’s shoulder, staring at his right arm which was padded with white gauze.  


“I won’t be able to paint for a while,” Grantaire said quietly, flexing his fingers ever so slightly and grimacing.  


“You’ll survive,” Enjolras assured him, assured himself. It was supposed to have been an exasperated retort, but it ended up sounding more like relief.  


“Thank you.” He whispered in response.  


He twisted his head to plant his chin on Enjolras’ curls. It was funny, although they were squished into a hospital bed, with medication swimming in Grantaire’s veins to mask the throbbing in his arm, he didn’t think he’d ever felt more comfortable in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
